


By Chance

by youngwolfbro



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a n g s t, but also fluff, idk???? i suffered writing and i hope you suffer from reading it, set in the canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:05:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8625502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngwolfbro/pseuds/youngwolfbro
Summary: three times that Don and Ron met by accident ( and one in which they didn't ).





	

**i.**

 

 

There was this time that — by chance — he and Malarkey had found themselves in the same room, alone. It wasn't that easy, considering how much both of them were busy — and also considering how everyone was just exhausted. They felt that war was coming to an end; but it really wasn't enough. Till that mess wouldn't have been over, they were stuck there, in some Belgique, French or — hopefully — German village that they had never heard of before, just like every other time. He remembered that air was heavy; the experience of Bastogne and of what had happened in Foy was still fresh on their skin, just like a wound that hadn't even stopped bleeding.  
He had started being Easy's captain since a moderate amount of time; he now knew most of the men, but it couldn't be said that he was truly intimate with lots of them. He respected them and they surely respected him — for various series of reasons that didn't fail to make him feel like he was doing his work in the best way possible — that was for sure. And yeah, he respected Malarkey too. But he had never really _talked_ to him. Not the way that he would have done on that occasion. Neither of them seemed in the mood to chit-chat anyways, so they never did, resulting in them being pretty serious and professional when they were together — such as many other men, considering the situation. But the thing about that one time was that he could clearly remember how the sunlight hitted Donald's features gently, penetrating by the window just to caress his face. His long eyelashes covered his nearly closed and dark big eyes, that were pointed to the dusty, wooden floor. He had stopped by the door, flashing a glare to the Sergeant before entering and settling himself on an old drawer, before putting his hand in a pocket to pull out a cigarette and lighting it up. The other was laying on his chair, feeble limbs pending from his body as if the man hadn't got the strenght to move them. The Lieutenant hadn't quite understood if he had even noticed that someone had entered the room.

‹ Malarkey? ›, his voice was firm, but almost soft; the voice that someone would have used to wake up a child who was in deep sleep.

Those same dark eyes suddently shut and the Sergeant became abruptly more aware of himself and his surroundings; the surprise lasted few moments though and he quickly recover a tired and concentrated expression, but without being able to completely erase the leftovers of what was occupying his mind till a moment before. 

‹ Captain. › He saluted, while Speirs gestured him to stop with an uncorcerned movemente of the hand. The other relaxed immediatly, not really fond of the formal salute himself, not in that minute.

‹ Get some rest ›, he had said dryly. It wasn't necessary that he gave explanations or reasons; Donald knew to be tired, he knew that he needed to stop and rest, breath, recover. Sleeping would have been the ideal; or at least he could have made himself comfortable instead of staying on a chair menacing to fall down where anybody could have just entered to wake him up from his daydream — that was most ceirtanly more similar to a nightmare than anything else. Malarkey had lost friends, and recently too, they had told him. 

The Sergeant looked at him with an interrogative expression. ‹ In fact, I'm not doing anything, sir ›, he had answered calmly. Speirs glared at him raising a brow, and took a step closer to him, leaing against the window by the piece of furniture — if that connotation applied to that broken _thing_ — on which Malarkey had settled himself. He took a drag from the smoke, before speaking up again, his eyes now inspecting the landscape outside the window.

‹ Don't bitch with me, Sergeant. Go get some sleep. Everybody needs to stop thinking every once in a while. › That being said, wasn't his point made?  
The redhead smiled bitterly, taking off his helmet just to pass an hand past his hair. 

‹ Sleep won't help if dreams kick in ›, was his simple reply, before letting his smile slowly fade. Ron remembere Malarkey seeming so little, so helpless, with his elbows on his knees, closed in himself. Something had moved inside him. Empathy, compassion, maybe even understanding; with those words — not many — he had made the officer picture perfectly the cage in which he was improsoned. The brunet crouched next to him, catching the attention of the other, who turned slightly the head to look at him. Sparky put a cig between Don's lips, looking him straight to the eyes. No more words were spoken. Malarkey lighted up his smoke and then his forehead fell on Speirs's shoulder, resting there for the right amount of time.

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

**ii.**

  
Landsberg might have been a small and colorful village in southwest Bavaria. Don would have never known for sure, he could just guess. What war had left to see were empty, tall and grey buildings surrounded by streets inhabitated by cumuls of old furniture, rests of what had come down — dirt. The remainings of the town layed on lanes just like corpses — silent witnesses of something that they couldn't control, that something they were not part of it. Krauts seemed quite different seen from there: they had the guns, they held the power, they were the ones who had fought for that to happen; they were the ones that had desired so much to land in a defeated Germany, they were the ones that just some years before were impatient to arrived were they finally had got. But even their goal seemed so different from what it was at first; dreams of glory had faded away, as the big ideals or their patriotism — the only thing they had left, comrades worn or vanished, was fighting for the sake of it. They had arrived there, so what of it? They didn't have the option to stop, not even if they wanted to, not even if they couldn't find a reason anymore. On that day, things would have changed. Not exactly for the better, though.  
He remembered Speirs entering the camp first, and he remember him taking slow steps, checking the lie on the land, and then stop. After him, other dozens of steps had followed, similar to his; slow-paced, nearly timorous movements, that quickly passed him. The Captain had stopped just few meters into the place, in the middle of the path that divided the camp in half. His feet seemed fixed to the ground; Don passed him, glaring at him just a moment, before turning his head at what he could have never be able to describe to anyone for the rest of his life. Were there words able to portray such a consuming picture? Even in that moment, the only feeling he could detect was the sense of something forming in his throath that he couldn't swallow, getting bigger and bigger as his feet went by without him even noticing it. It was like a barn of yool, entangled reflexes to that image that got more and more confused, leaving him with nothing but a dry sense of impotence, strong, heavy, overwhelming. Skeletons rising from the graves they wished to run away from multiplied, surrounding them, coming back to life without the certainty to actually be able to complete the movements they desperatly tried to put in action. Few words were spoken, and every each one of them seemed empty of meaning, not enough to depict exactly what it was meant to define. Not even those two, famous syllabes — _pain_ — could aim to be even near to what had happened — and was happening — in that place. Landsberg would forever be, to him, one of the things he wouldn't ever be able to explain — to himself or to others — that one thing that had made him question the meaning of everything — of the term _living_ , of its fundamental difference from breathing, of what a man could be capable of doing. That day, Ronald Speirs was trusted by Major Richard Winters on finding a way to bring the former prisoners food and water. He hadn't met him till the night had already took the place of the sunlight, not apt to erase the marks that it had left in them.  
It had been by chance.  
Don knew he shouldn't have been outside at that time. He just needed fresh air blowing in his face, assuring him that after the darkness a new dawn would have come; he already knew he would have lived to see it — not an assurance that he had always had the luxury to have. But that down, reminded him the black sky, wouldn't have been brighter that the one that preceded it. He followed the figures that the smoke created by dancing in the moisty air, but his eyes had catched something far more interesting under the dim brightness of a street light. A dark silhouette was engulfed by it, easily recognisable just by its posture; the man laid against the wooden wall of the big house that the officers had occupied, his head tilted towards the immense canopy above them, smoke enveloping his traits, already made invisible by the gloom. At first, he couldn't quite tell why he had started walking towards him; but as he got closer, seeing the other's eyes sparkling by reflecting the poor source of light they were near to, he had understood why. That man was indestructible, wasn't he? He probably just hoped that a indestructible man could easily pick up the pieces of one that it's broken. It wouldn't have been the first time anyways; surprisingly enough, he had already been something to cling off while falling in the dephts of his own mind.  
Speirs didn't turn to face him, not even when he had leaned next to him. No questions. No ' why are you out here? '. Well, he was out too anyways, so what would have been the point? The Lieutenant was surely a man who didn't like to ignore formalities, but then it would have seemed ridiculous to point them out, or at least it would have been for Don. But then again, anything seemed pretty pointless to him in that precise moment. Everything but one thing.  
Fighting.  
He expected Speirs to speak up, like he had done in Haguenau. But a minute that could have as well have lasted a year had passed, with just far sounds polluting the air, and neither of them had said anything. His irises darted to the officer.

‹ Sir? › 

The voice was insecure, holding an unspoken doubt in it.  
The brunet didn't move, if not to take another drag from his lucky.

‹ Speak up, Malarkey. ›

And the answer didn't seem as firm as always was, too. His tone seemed muffled by a disturbing serenity; it didn't feel right, it didn't surely suit him. The authority in it wasn't toally gone, but that sense of security, of safeness that he had almost immediatly found in it just few time before wasn't there.

‹ We'll soon be home, won't we? ›

At that words, the stillness of the Captain was interrupted by him wincing, before attacking him with even more strenght; he had flinched before becoming suddently motionless, his cigarette consuming mid-air, where his hand had stopped. It was different from before, thoug; he appeared upset, agitated even. He remained silent few seconds, and his voice seemed even more faint when he had spoken up again.

‹ Most probably. ›

‹ Sir? ›

‹ Just go the fuck ahead, Sergeant. ›

He hesitated.

‹ How are you feeling? ›

The question didn't seem to bother him, his limbs and his expression returning to their initial state of absurd calmness.

He let the butt of the smoke fall to the ground, letting his arms rest on his sides.

‹ I don't know, Malarkey. ›

Don reminded himself of how he had surpassed an immobile Lieutenant back at the camp, just some hours before. And he had struggled to realize it, but he had in fact seen him stop right there, not even moving forward. What he could recall was Ronald Speirs standing in front of all of them, engulfed by the ashen luster of a cloudy day, enveloped by a tragic, staggering painting. And by the reminescence of the scene, he drew one last, final conclusion on the brunet and on every other person he had ever met: no man is undestroyable. Everyone breaks. He just turned to the Captain, without really noticing _how_ he was looking at the one who standed beside him. The other lowered his head, pointing his eyes to the ground, where the butt he had thrown before was, now extinguished.

‹ What about you? ›

He followed his gaze, finding himself staring at the rest of the cigarette.

‹ Empty, sir. I feel empty. ›

Some silence followed, just them being side by side, their shoulders nearly touching and heavy air pushing on their backs. 

‹ I wish I could fill that ›, was his reply, voice hoarsened and almost frail. ‹ I really wish I could. ›

The words turned into murmurs, and no more of them were spoken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**iii.**  
  
The redhead — rose cheecks and lips softly parted, was a blissfull vision. At first he had been just a shadow in the glowing light that the dawn easily provided; the colorful brightness was reflected even on the stones that — stuck one against the other — formed the street, and surrounded the figure in a gentle and armonious embrace, making his features look even kinder. He walked slowly, tired face, eyes to the ground. Speirs didn't think their path would have crossed in that moment; he expected Malarkey to be long gone when he would have walked down that street — the same street where he had been just few hours before, where their prisoner had been taken. He got off the jeep and passed an hand through his soiled black hair, finding them a bit out of order — not that he cared that much, tough, or at least not in that moment. He gave a sign to the driver, meaning that he could as well leave him there. The voiture was started and he moved steps towards the man he had seen.

‹ Got a lighter, Sergeant? › Don seemed to be surprised to be just in front of him — he didn't seem to have noticed Ron before he had spoken up. He saluted, before digging a hand in his pockets and passing him the fire. ‹ Yessir ›, he had mumbled, putting it in his hand — his finger accidentaly brushing on his hard skin before being hidden again in the uniform's pockets.

‹ Lieutenant, er ›, he hesitated, before finally looking at him straight to the eye. ‹ How's Grant? ›  
Speirs shrugged, trying to push the things he had felt the night before as deep as they could be inside of him; he had Grant's hand in his when the doctor had said that he wouldn't have made it. He could remeber nearly _feel_ him getting colder and slipping away, and he would have never forget how that feeling had terrified him, despite the iron features. He hadn't let Chuck go; he wasn't willing to lose a man, not like that. Knowing that Grant had survived the operation, knowing that he could be considered alive by chance, made him feel revealed. But being aware that an episode like that could repeat itself, being aware of how their lives were at stake even then, made him feel weak and fragile; he could lead the troopers in battle, but he couldn't defend them from themselves. And that thought had tortured him.

‹ He's fine. The surgeon operated him few hours ago and said that he's one of the thoughest men he's ever met. Guy's gonna be fully recovered soon ›, he answered, while lighting his lucky.

Malarkey nodded, seemingly still worried.

‹ Hey now ›, spoke up again Speirs. ‹ I said he's gonna be ok, so relax your nerves Sergeant. › He had patted him on the shoulder, letting his hand linger there when they had touched and tilting his head a bit, as if he was trying to meet his glare, that was again oriented to the ground. The other had tried to fake a smile, failing miserably.

‹ Yessir, I'm not worried. I'm just. . . ›, he shook his head a bit and raised a brow, pressing his lips in an unconvinced smirk.

‹ See you, sir. ›, he had added suddently, making a salute and turning to where he was heading before he had stopped to talk with him.

Ron frowned and grabbed his arm — in a way that could have as well seemed tender, with no actual strenght put into the movement.

‹ Speak up, Malarkey. › His voice was hard though; he hadn't intended to, but he had probably made the soldier think that he was _ordering_ him to answer to his doubts. 

‹ Sir, I just gotta — I gotta go. That was nothing. › His face was now turning to look at him and Ron never thought that he could be so easily surprised and so easily hurt. Donald had looked at him with his expressive dark eyes in a manner that reminded him the period in which they barely knew each other's names and during which the Sergeant clearly disliked him. Not that he expected them to be best friends; even him didn't really know how to call their weird talks, didn't know what name give to the way they always ended up looking to the other when they were in same room and didn't know how to interpret the feeling he got when the man was near. They spoke pretty often, but they surely weren't close as he and Lipton could be, probably. In spite of all the objective facts, Ron just knew one thing: those eyes had managed hit him, like a slap given when your guard is off. Malarkey's words were rushful, harsh — kinda out of character for someone like him.  
He let his hand rest on the arm just a second more, with they're eyes locked — and the redhead getting visibly more nervous as that little time went on — before calmly moving it away. He hadn't stopped to look at him, not even when his and had reached its place, moving to remove the cigarette from his own lips. Donald turned again his gaze to the ground. 

‹ I'm sorry, sir ›, he had nearly murmured, before swallowing.

He waited.

‹ Don't say what you don't mean, Sergeant ›, had replies Speirs with an equally harsh voice to the one Don had reserved him. The brown irises of the other darted to his face, with his visage showing off a quiet panic in front of his reaction. ‹ It would be way better if you explained why you would be so anxious. I could even ignore your blatant _rudeness_. › He got even rougher, leaning a bit over the man. If he wanted their talks to be strictly official, then he would have to check his behaviour, thought Ron with a spark of irritation weighing on his mood. Malarkey's chest inflated a bit, making it seem as if he was holding air into it. He let his breath out, looked to the ground, looked at him and then he had answered. 

‹ I'm just shaken, sir. From yesterday and I. . . ›, he stopped, suddently relaxing his shoulders, and letting his tone get a little more informal.

‹ I can't believe that Grant was shot by that guy. I mean, it was easier when Krauts shot at us and we at them, wasn't it? ›, he let out a sarcastical and maybe even unintentional chuckle. ‹ The thing is, yesterday night. . . ›

‹ What? › 

‹ I don't understand you ›, stated Don, looking at him, his traits horned by exasperation and sahking a bit his head. ‹ And sorry sir, sorry — I know this is strange and I hope you won't think I'm crazy, sir. But after — . . .I just thought I could finally get you. But sometimes you look like a totally different person from who I think you are and it makes mad — oh, so mad. ›

There was some silence and Don was about to speak again — probably to speak again. Ron cut him before he had even started.

‹ Ask away. What is it that you didn't understand? › And again, his tone was as gentle as possible; Malarkey made him soft, since that time he had catched him alone in Haguenau. That image, the picture of that mournful Sergeant just sitting by himself in a dirty room, touched him somewhere inside now, when he thought about it again. The other raised he's brows, seeming surprised.

‹ I — I. . . ›, he narrowed his eyes, caught off evidently off guard. The Captain put his hands on Don shoulders, grabbing them delicately and got even closer. ‹ Go ahead ›, he whispered. 

He could've counted every freckle on Don's cheeck from there — as the sun rised, sky matching with his red hair and just with every inch of what he felt like; the dawn seemed to be orchestrated just to make him shine more between his fingers. He felt his shaky breath on the face, mouth slightly opened. He could also detect a feeling of urge growing inside him, like an animal trapped for too long but he didn't answer to it right away.

‹ Why didn't you kill him? › Faint words that the fresh breeze brought to Ron ears by miracle, considering how shyly they had been pronounced.

With his same old expression painted over his face — but with a touch of fondness visible in the green irises — the brunet rested his forehead against the one of the other, their noses lightly brushing and and Malarkey's breath even clearer and distinct.

‹ It wasn't needed. I was just being furious and I saw you looking at me ›, just a brief hesitation, their lips growing closer. ‹ And I saw you looking at me, and you seemed scared. And I realized ›, he let a hand caress Don's neck, following its line till it was in his short hair. His glared had moved from his eyes to the lips, without even noticing it.

‹ that it was too much. That I don't wanted you to look at me like that. So don't Malarkey. ›

The last sentence had come out with his voice being unexpectedly raspy. And then he had done it. He pushed his lips against the Sergeant's ones, without really thinking about it. But he was surprised when he realized that the other not only wasn't pulling away from it, but was also letting him push his tongue between his soft, parted lips. And even more absurd, Don kissed him back.  
They could have spent lots of time talking and trying to define what that relationship meant to them, what name to give it, all sorts of answers you'd want in a situation like that; except that they didn't care, or at least he didn't. What he _did_ care about was getting to kiss Donald Malarkey as much as he could, because he couldn't remember something being so good as that kiss stolen in an empty street engulfed by the arrival of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**iv.**

  
Ron sprinted, hearing the sound of his feet hitting loudly the pavement. 

He thought that he may as well have looked like the hero of a romantic lover, trying to reach his beloved just before her departing; the landscape accentuated the sensation. Zell am See was by far the most beautiful place they had seen since the war had started, and the warmness of an upcoming Summer just made it look even more unwordly, distant to everything they had experienced before — with the exception of weapons and tanks that broke the spell quite easily. He run past a flight of stairs, throwing himself forward with all the strenght he had in his legs; how could he be so late? It didn't matter, though. He would have arrived in time, for sure.  
Some comrades had turned their faces to look at him, probably weirded out by his behaviour: he wasn't used to ever be in a rush outside of battle and he could recall running like this just during one. He didn't even feel breathless, adrenaline pumping strenght in his legs, so much in fact that he didn't even feel them moving.  
He arrived at the place where the car would have left, disappearing in a small lane that disappeared in the opaque shadows of the woods. There was just one problem: no car was there. He standed there for a second, trying to catch his breath, before really realizing what had happened. The Captain moved one step forward, starting to look around himself in the hope of catching a glimpse of a common army jeep carrying some uncommon passenger. But it wasn't in sight. There was no time, he had told himself when he had started running again.

He found himself jogging down the path, feeling the wind blowing against him and seeing the sunlight peeking over the leaves; he didn't want this to be a substitute of the last image of the Sergeant before never seeing him again. It couldn't let it be that way. He saw a jeep in the distance.

‹ Malarkey! ›

When he had crossed paths with Don the first time, he could have never imagined him making him feel so desparate to reach him. He raised a hand, not even surprised from the frantic sound that his shout had provoked to echo in the air. The car started to slow down as it got nearer to a crossroads not far beyond. He started to slow down too, jogging his way to car.

He turned to it.

He expected to see rose cheecks stained by freckles, a bright smile and those dark eyes circled by long, long lashes, that always told him something, that always held a messagge inside them; whether it was pain or fondness, he would always catch something that made him think that Don was trying to tell him _don't leave me_. He expected to look at a man that war had changed but not that much to make irrecognizable, a sweet, tender man that inside carried the graceful innocence of a boy.

He didn't get what he expected.

Two men saluted him, looking confused but not much troubled.

He looked at them with wide eyes, and his heart stopped beating for an instant.

‹ Do you know where Techinal Sergeant Donald Malarkey is? ›

He had spoken up calmly, trying to dissimulate, telling himself that probably Don was still in Zell am See anyways.

One of them smiled an nodded. ‹ In his way to Paris, sir! ›  
The following carefree dialogue that had taken place in front of his eyes seemed so insignificant, so irrelevant, that he hadn't catched any of it. He just gestured that they could go ahead and listened to the sound of the engine starting up and getting more and more far. He just stood there. The sunlight had gotten quite strong, suddently unbearable on his shoulders and to his eyes. The lieutenant made just few steps ahead, finding himself in the middle of the crossroads. Slowly, he let his gaze linger on all the paths that were there; all he could see where the mountains and an immense mirror of water that reflected them and the blue sky. He started to make his way back to the base, lighting himself a cigarette. 

It was funny.

All of those times they had met by luck of the draw and that one time that he needed to see him, he hadn't been able to.  
Again, his steps were the only sound audible — apart from the crickets singing somewhere he couldn't quite place.  
He remembered Don with his head on his chest looking up to him with big eyes asking him ‹ Will you come see me when I'm leaving? ›

But even worse, he remembered him saying _yes_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> so, hey! This fic, originally, should have been more balanced, with 3 Ron POVS and 2 for Malark, but at the end it just sorta came out like this and I decided that I didn't want to add anything and that maybe, to analyze better other moments, I should write some one shots! Anyways thanks for reading and tell me if you spot any spelling or phrasing mistake!


End file.
